


Gamble/Trust

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Felix's room, Wash is never referenced. His name isn't allowed to be dropped in there. Tucker doesn't trust him enough.</p><p>But he does sorta think Felix falls under that 'dumb luck' rule, for a while—that he's got all the solutions to the ones that can't be solved, yet. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gamble/Trust

**Author's Note:**

> Aha! I have returned. I hope you enjoy this, and also, comments are absolutely appreciated. Just letting me know what you think is always helpful.

1.

In all fairness, Tucker doesn’t immediately seek out Felix in the evening, the day-of the half-successful mission to the Fed base.

In all fairness, Tucker’s kinda lying to himself.

It’s not like he’s caught up in delusion, thinking Felix is gonna help him in anyway—he’s expecting patronising bullshit or sardonic comments, callous ones at that—but Felix has a clean slate with Tucker. There’s no Simmons and his pursed lips and consoling words, ‘ _I mean, you did pretty well considering,’_ and Grif’s casual carelessness (Tucker knows better, though, there’s a _glint_ there) and Caboose…Caboose was ruled out given the fact he’d killed their _leader_ once. And Church just brings up fresh bitter memories and _Tucker does not need that_.

Especially because then he remembers _Wash_ is gone, and wow, Tucker’s already regretting making a mental list to convince himself knocking on Felix’s ultra-special hidden away quarters wasn’t a bad idea.

(As far as Tucker knows, along with the pay Felix had scavenged out one of the bomb shelters for himself. Begrudgingly agreeing to allow others in, in the case of nuclear weapons acquired by the Feds, of course, as Kimball’s terms went).

It was appallingly appropriate, really.

Felix allows the heavy, grating door to slide open with a groan at the knock of Tucker. He’s dressed in hemp sweats, apparently the usual garb on Chorus given the convenient growth of the crop, and he rolls his eyes catching sight of Tucker.

“Are we going to have a _heart to heart,_ Tucker? Because I don’t do heart to hearts.”

Tucker rolls his eyes back, just the same, and says, “No, we’re not doing heart to hearts, Felix. What do you take me for, dude?”

“A kinda heart to heart guy,” Felix replies, stepping back and allowing Tucker to enter. “Consider yourself privileged. I don’t let _anyone_ in my room.”

“Yeah. Like you wouldn’t offer tours all the time.”

Felix draws out a thoughtful sound and relents, “Maybe. I might. All right, I _admit it_. I really have the best room, don’t you think?”

The shelter isn’t so much a _shelter_ as has been made out. It’s more of a steel-enclosed room, not really a bunker. It didn’t offer _exactly_ as much protection as implied, but Tucker lets that pass considering the base is in a fucking _cave_ , which is something Simmons still hasn’t stopped remarking upon.

There’s a standard military double-bed, more of a luxury than the singles spread out amongst the barracks Tucker and his Private abided in—but more assumptions and Tucker’s sure it’s just part of the pay grade. The rest of the room is littered in knives. A chill runs up his spine at the careless clutter of the weapons.

For what it’s worth it’s not supposed to be stylish, the room, but Tucker’s always just had a _taste_ for picking out places. And it wasn’t much, really—not that Tucker’s seen much in the way of _stylish_ outside his glowing sword for quite a long time, so.

“Eh, it’s okay.”

Felix lets out an outraged sound, and oddly Tucker thinks of Donut. ( _Another fucking person that’s missing, goddamn_ —but at least not dead).

“No, it’s not _okay._ It’s marginally better than anything here in this ragged place,” Felix says, and Tucker notes that Felix is half an inch shorter than him, or thereabouts. So Tucker’s a bit short too, but is he not _happy_ to discover this. There’s a certain glee that comes from always thinking oneself lacking in height and finding somebody smaller—and even the _smallest_ of differences make all the world.

“Dude. You’re shorter than me,” Tucker says, maybe a tinge of elation evident in voicing this realisation.

Felix barks out a harsh laugh. “Don’t think you can use _height_ against me. Really. What a low blow, Tucker. Let’s measure our dicks and see how we fare.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

Felix walks past him and knocks just below his shoulder with his own, saunters (Tucker’s never seen somebody saunter like fucking _Felix_ ) over to his own bed and jumps on it, carelessly.

“Come on. We’ll tell everyone it just happened accidentally. I just _happened_ to whip my dick out, and you just _happened_ to—”

“Yeah, I think I’m down for a heart to heart,” Tucker cuts over. “Seriously, Felix? Don’t fucking do that.”

“Do what?” is the innocent reply and it’s so sickly innocent it’s _not_ innocent.

“Jesus shit,” Tucker mutters, crosses his arms awkwardly and realises then he’s in Felix’s room, late at night, and suddenly the context that _went over his head_ is clear to him. “Oh shit.”

“Having a big realisation? C’m’here and I’ll help you with that.”

“No, thanks.”

“Shame. So are you going to sit down or what?” Felix asks, sitting up properly from the slump he was in on his bed. He pats the spot beside him.

“Aren’t there any, like, chairs? A bit hospitable?”

“I figure if there’s any issues people can sit on the floor. In the corner. Against the wall.”

“Such a nice guy.”

“I _know_ ,” Felix says, slowly, smiling none too kindly. “That’s just my reputation around here.”

“I kinda gathered that.”

“What do they say about me? Those squads of yours. Charles? Oh, Jason. I think that’s their names. Jensen? What’s her first name? John. Hmm…” Felix trails off, not meeting eye contact with Tucker once and yeah, okay, Tucker didn’t _know_ the guys in his squad really well, it doesn’t make him feel a little bit less bad about their deaths.

And maybe he feels like he _has_ to feel bad otherwise he’ll look as dickish as Felix. Because he _knows_ the information on where Wash was is vital.

That’s essentially why Tucker’s in the room with Felix right now. There’s Kimball haunting the halls and checking up the numbers and men and women and kids who’re fighting that shoulda been in classrooms and Tucker doesn’t want to _talk_ to her, and he doesn’t want to go see Palomo because he _hates_ the fucking kid (he’s a kid, he’s a _kid_ ) and Bitters is busy doing his duty as the sarcastic affectionate friend.

And Felix is, pretty fucking much, the only one that’s not gonna give him either a pitying look or a _that was a wild decision_ side-eye. Wild entailing many things. (He had a whole fucking memorial of side-eyes from Church—side-eyes via a fucking _visor,_ which was housing an artificial intelligence. So that’s certainly saying something).

“I never pegged you as the thoughtful guy. You got a thinkin’ cap on or what?” Felix pipes up, feet dangling off the edge of the bed, toes wriggling.

“I never thought you’d be such an asshole.”

“Then let’s acquaint ourselves. Captain Tucker, on a scale of one to ten, one being a really wonderfully good looking nice guy, and ten being an _absolutely_ good looking and talented asshole, what do you rate me?”

“Negative ten.”

“If we play games you _play by the rules, Tucker_ ,” Felix says, and it comes off in that playfully mean Felix way, except…there’s a lingering of something Tucker’s a step off spotting.

“Nah. You never said no negatives.” If there’s one reason to keep Simmons around, it’s learning dumb math facts that’ll come in handy one day.

“I said one to ten. That rules out negatives,” Felix insists, hands clasped across his chest. Tucker walks over to the bed, hesitantly but he doesn’t wanna stand around all awkwardly, anyway.

“I’m pretty sure I’m still right. Technically.”

“There’s no technicalities here. I ask you to _do_ something, you _do it_.”

Tucker hums thoughtfully. “I dunno. I don’t really agree, dude.”

“You are just such a fucker.”

“Jeez, getting worked up over nothing.”

And it was quite odd—but quite odd in that Felix way, that odd insistence over _tiny_ things, over these _particular_ things needing to be done: Tucker, _follow my lead_ , Tucker, _duck_ even though there’s no explosions, Tucker, this is a plan I _know_.

But this is nothing of the sort usually involved in tactics or anything, so Tucker doesn’t pay much attention to it.

“I’m at least a ten,” Felix adds after a beat.

“Dude, seriously, conceited much?”

“No. I’m just _very_ honest.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Really,” Felix says, leaning on an arm between them. “I’ve never told a lie once.”

“And Simmons isn’t a virgin.”

“With all the teasing you do to _Simmons_ , I would wager _you’re_ a virgin. Leave the poor boy alone.”

“Okay, we’re not dragging him into this.”

“You just did.”

Tucker groans and tucks his feet up underneath his thighs, looks around the room again for distraction. It’s bare in the sense Felix’s hasn’t really made a _home_ here—no pictures or anything personal, some guns lying around, the knives he saw earlier. Impersonal, really, except for the fact the sharpened blades were certainly a trademark of Felix’s.

“So Tucker. If this wasn’t you coming for a, ah, what should we call it not to alarm your delicate feelings, an _intimate visit,_ what gives the intrusion?”

“Intimate visit. You’re fucking unbelievable,” Tucker says, turning to stare right at Felix. “ _Intimate._ Holy shit. That’s like the Dear Aunt Emma shit in gossip magazines.”

“I used to read those,” Felix muses, biting his lip almost thoughtfully, though Tucker’s guessing it’s probably just him trying to be _charming_. “Ah yes. _Dear Auntie Susan, my boyfriend won’t talk to me and I found used condoms in the car. What should I do?_ I used to pen out my own answers. Tell the boys and girls to go and fuck the parents of their partners. Auntie Susan never published any of my advice, unfortunately.”

“Even _I_ wouldn’t go do that.”

“Oh, high and mighty Tucker. I _like_ this.” Felix scoots closer. “Now. Tell me. Are you having any guilt? Are you feeling a bit down? Uncle Felix can help. But you can call me Auntie if you like, I don’t _mind_ either.”

Tucker considers this. Considers it.

He’ll humour Felix for a bit.

“ _Okay_ , Auntie Felix,” he says, very close to emulating the typical angry, repressed sigh of Church and it’s not out of missing his friend, “I just feel like I should feel _worse_. Like Cunningham and Rogers’ death shoulda fucked me up more. Except I’m happier I got info on where Wash is.”

Felix breathes in deeply, adopts a serene expression. “Well, Tucker, dearie, I’m glad you’ve come to me for advice.” He raises up a finger to the anticipated protest from Tucker at the evident condescension in his tone. “Now, war’s hard. War’s _so hard._ And you learn a fair bit. That people die. That some people _have_ to die for the good of the war. That’s the way it is. People die.” Felix smiles. “Have a lovely day. Yours truly, your Uncle Felix.”

Tucker’s stunned for a moment, unsure what to say—it’s a spiel similar to the _that’s war_ bullshit, except it’s delivered not so apologetically, now.

“I can see why they didn’t publish your ‘advice’,” he says, finally. “That was weak as shit. Do you read your horoscope every week?”

“I _do._ I’m a Scorpio. Apparently I’m going to meet the love of my life this week.” Felix laughs, almost dips his head back with the action.

“I don’t feel comforted. Can I have my money back?”

“You never paid.” Felix purses his chin. “That’s two fifty.”

“Yeah, no.”

-

Tucker, in all fairness, doesn’t allow it to become a _thing_. But it becomes a _thing_. He goes to Felix for reassurance he’s not a cold asshole, Felix makes him feel like a _good_ asshole, because holy shit is Felix bad.

And it’s not even _guidance._ He doesn’t trust Felix for guidance. It’s just…something. In between all of it.

Felix is some peculiar canopy, some confidant that puts his arms around Tucker’s waist and pretends to be nice. And Tucker _knows_ he’s pretending.

And the terrible truth—the thing he won’t admit aloud—is that war is not very kind, or soft, or nice, and there is rarely a moment where Wash and the others leave his head, and he is dissatisfied with progress—

He comes and knocks on Felix’s door, and he’s met with that Uncle Felix smile and there— _there_.

“Tucker, you know, people are going to _talk_ ,” he says one evening, patting Tucker’s back as he walks in. “I’ve already got Palomo clamouring to come and join the party.”

“You didn’t say something to fucking _Palomo_ —” Tucker says, but Felix cuts him off with a withering look.

“Palomo’s nosy. Palomo forgets things very quickly.”

“I dunno. He’s pretty fucking insistent sometimes.”

“No. I don’t _think_.”

Felix grabs his waist then and jabs his nose in the shoulderblade of Tucker’s.

“So,” Felix says, cheek pressed in hard where his head rested, “what am I gonna give you advice on today? Are we going to address the Washington Issue?”

“Washington…issue?”

“You and your uncollected and confusing feelings for the former Freelancer of—”

That’s the first time Tucker kisses Felix—harsh and _don’t you bring that up_ because this is Tucker addressing things himself, not allowing Felix to _meddle_ like that. Even if Felix often does the meddling, anyhow.

It’s not rough, like he’d expect it to be—unforgiving—but it’s not emotional or something charged with expectancy. It’s a liplock Tucker’s thinking is _sort of wrong_ , but it’s not. But it is. Felix is quick to transition from chaste to dirty and slick, though, and Tucker doesn’t pull away.

-

They don’t fuck. That’s the first rule Tucker puts out—ironically enough for his oft-flirtatious demeanour, but there are boundaries he wants to keep between he and Felix. And that’s _one_.

Felix might say, once or twice, “ _Gosh_ , Tucker, expected you to want in my pants from the get-go.”

But that’s the last thing that’s said.

One night—one particular night, when the doubt’s already in Tucker’s mind and he’s not sure _how_ they’re gonna do this in five days—Felix fucking holds him and talks all about where he’s from on Earth. Somewhere really American, near the South African Embassy and the importance of that location being Felix growing up pick-pocketing rich officials. Nothing too extreme, of course, he claims.

“And my grandmother used to make all that congee-stuff. Rice. Lots of rice. Better than the stuff here,” he says. “I had a little yo-yo. Ancient thing. She carved it.”

“You seem like the kid left out on the streets. I mean, that’s what I guessed.”

“ _Oh,_ me? _No_. No. I had a loving home. Two moms and a grandmother and cousin that never fucked off. It was swell. I’m just a bit _rebellious_ in nature, Tucker.”

“Yeah, okay. And you were a punk rocker, right?”

“I never so much had a phase like that.”

“Scene? Emo. Ooh, were you some really bad hipster?”

“This is far too personal,” he says, haughtily.

-

The day before Tucker comes to the ultimatum to leave, Tucker doesn’t know it’s the last time he’ll see the inside of Felix’s room.

That’s fine, though.

Felix sighs, runs a soothing hand down Tucker’s neck. “I _could_ ask for a raise from Kimball for keeping your morale high.”

“You absolutely fucking won’t.”

“I dunno. Only _fair._ I’m doing more than I signed up for.”

“I think this shit if pretty mutual,” Tucker says, looking away from Felix but leaving a hand tight around Felix’s waist, like this physical contact will make him think less of his friends and more about what’s _here_ now.

“I _suppose_ so. What story shall we have tonight? I’m thinking _Goldilocks and the Three Unggoy._ Terrific, touching, heartfelt retelling of the classic tale.”

Tucker doesn’t respond for a moment, purses his lips as he fractionally presses closer to Felix. “Any about Sangheili you know?”

“Eh. There’s _Sangheilina_ which is like _Thumbalina_ except, y’know. Not a little fairy princess. It’s a Sangheili.”

 _Dear Auntie Felix_ and _Felix Tells a Bedtime Story that Makes Tucker Think of the Ones He Could Tell Junior if he Ever Finds Him Again_ are two regular showings in Felix’s bedroom.

When Tucker returns to his room, later, he’s rocked to sleep by some invisible decision he’s already subconsciously made. He won’t float down the river—won’t let himself get passed on, person to person. Beat against the current.

-

The decision to _go_ , to march on because they had all the guile and perfection of dumb luck on their side, isn’t held back by anything like, oh, _Felix_. Tucker doesn’t spare a thought to it—okay, so he and Felix might’ve had a _thing_ but it was a _thing_ in the sense he’d stay back and let the thoughts of Wash and the others tie up only linger in the back of his mind.

It was comfort. And that’s all he needed to label it.

Although what does cross his mind, obtusely, is if Felix would miss _him_. Whatever panned out from here, meaning distance between—but, some doubtful knowledge, not quite common sense but his natural ability to question, pretty much told that Felix wouldn’t.

Tucker isn’t worried, so much.

*

2.

There’s a cocktail of relief finding Wash but it’s short-lived, moments that should be safe are always short-lived, now. Evenings that were only pauses between. Finding one's friends, making contact—short.

( _What would happen? After all this on Chorus?'_

_When they find Blood Gulch—maybe, if they retreated this planet alive?_

_Will they stay in Blood Gulch for the rest of their days?_

There’s no straight answer).

See, this all goes through his head when they’re cornered and there’s fucking red lasers from snipers in vantage positions all pointed at his and his friends’ heads. Not even thinking about death or something morbid like that, but what _coulda_ happened. Or if Church had never been an AI—if from the start it was just all of them, in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, and that’s all there was to it. The Reds and Blues. And Wash too, for the sake he _likes_ Wash and hey—he deserves a little peace, too. Fighting against Sarge was something far preferable, less volatile than what they were doing now.

Yet Tucker _knows_ this is what they should—prove that you don’t _have_ to be someone with expert training, that you can fall into holes, find legendary weapons, become a prophesied hero and have _no_ idea how you got there. And if they go down now—if they die then—at least he can say they did better. They did _well_.

He’s made peace with it by the time Felix shows up ( _and it’s much quicker than he thought, that whole process_ ) and damn. Dumb luck for _sure_. Felix the mercenary unknowingly played into that, that almost cosmic force of things falling into their favour—

Or maybe not.

-

(Agent Carolina, in fact, is their guardian this time).

Her knee, stabbed by one of the knives Tucker knew as friendly, once, if threatening, is healing. A bit. Dr. Grey doesn’t have a go-to of aloe vera and orange juice, and he’s thankful, at least, that Carolina’s got _proper_ help. And she can feel her toes.

He sits with her for a bit, because Church is perched on the ground, not saying anything, for once.

Tucker fiddles with his hands, for a bit.

He didn’t _trust_ Felix. Their goals aligned a bit, for a while—Felix helped them, Felix _helped_ them, Felix pretended to soothe him sometimes (if _soothing_ could be associated with him).

And damn if Tucker doesn’t feel a bit cheated.

He exhales a breath, soaking in the pause between what they can do _now_ and what they’ll do _later_. Church doesn’t look up at him, so Tucker says to Carolina, “That flip was pretty cool.”

Her head snaps up and she stares for a moment. “I did what I could.”

“Yeah. You flexible much?”

“When I say, how far can I bend your fingers back, that’s code for _cut that kind of talk_.” Even through her visor she’s cutting and curt and maybe, Tucker asked out of habitual comfort and less so actually _caring_ to try and flirt with her.

“And hey, Tucker? I won’t stop her,” Church adds. “That stuff got old _way_ back. Actually, I don’t think it was ever cool.”

“Thanks, dude,” Tucker mutters, leaning forward on his knees. They’re not exactly reconciled but they’re amiable, for now.

There’s a silence for a few beats, until Carolina says, “How are you coping?”

Tucker turns to her, a little put-off by the fact she’s genuinely asking how he’s _doing_ , that he event answers her honestly: “Pissed off. Church is still a dick and Felix is the dick I always thought he was.”

“Hey, hey, at least I’m an _honest_ dick,” Church says, floating up to a height level with Tucker’s head. “He was a lying dick. You shouldn’t like assholes like him.”

“Eh. He was pretty asshole-y all along, but you know, he was on our _side_. You tolerate assholes when they’re on your team.”

“Subtle.”

“I know, dude.”

“I used to lead a team,” she says, after watching the interaction—seemingly dissatisfied, but nonetheless tolerating it—and she moves to take off her helmet but decides against it. “And I know what it feels like to have your teammates turn against you. To hold information. So does Wash, but I think he’s already made that clear to you.”

Tucker returns back to her and thinks, cautiously, she’s starting one of those Freelancer speeches about their _past_ and _history_ and all they’ve been through, but he doesn’t have the heart to feel so derisive about it, considering it was _Agent Carolina_ of all people.

“Yeah,” he replies. “We had a big talk. Wash got all his feelings out.”

“I’m sure,” she says wryly. “And you were understanding, as far as I can assume.”

“Totally. Gave him lots of emotional support.”

“I thought I was on the right side. And they thought _they_ were on the right side. You know Project Freelancer was confusing,” she continues on, hands pressed tight against her thighs. “It felt like they betrayed me and, in the end, we went all our separate ways.

“I’m not saying this is the same, Tucker—but I am saying that you can’t let betrayals rule you.”

“Nah. I’m not worried.”

“You might be, one day.”

Tucker rolls his eyes beneath his helmet, but can’t help but feeling a burning on his neck, and he sees her staring at him, visor unforgiving. “What? So Felix decided to pull the carpet under us. Big deal.”

“All right, Tucker.”

He’s close to not saying anything but he says _thanks_ , anyway, and it comes out more genuine than he intended.

-

She’s right.

Of course he trusts Church. Like, Church is his _friend,_ but he left and _damn_. Asshole didn’t even say goodbye, and for all he knew Church could’ve gone like those AI get way too old and lose it, or just decided Blue team wasn’t his place.

He’s a bit apprehensive, too, maybe a bit—because Epsilon isn’t quite Alpha, isn’t quite the Church he knew. And this same Epsilon was all, _don’t trust Wash_ except Wash was a guy actually _there_ for him, without the idea Tucker’s just cumbersome or anything like that. Even though he shot Donut and shit. But, you know. People make mistakes.

Felix’s betrayal slash ‘I’ve been lying to you the whole time’ act has maybe gone deeper than he admits.

Which is why he won’t trust Church saying _just a few more seconds_ at the Beta crash site, because he sees _both_ Caboose and Wash too close to the space pirates for his liking, and—he’ll own up to _this_ —he might not like being a leader, but damn, there’s instincts he feels he should follow sometimes. They’re kinda protective. He's trying to embrace them.

-

He never thought he’d see the day _Caboose_ was right. First Carolina, then _Caboose_.

Both with the same message—though Carolina had a more eloquent way of putting it. _Don’t let it spiral_. _Don’t let this continue_.

Tucker grumbles to himself, as he walks to find Church and solve this bullshit.

( _He shoulda trusted Church. Of all people._

 _Felix was fucking insidious)_.

-

His number one priority is this: listen to those protective instincts. His second is to find some vindictive way to take Felix down all by himself, but with obvious help from the Reds and Blues. Mash those two together: the _he’s all mine_ and predictably dash of ‘dumb luck’ he so liked to take advantage of, now, because if he believes in one thing other than Wash it’s that.

He has an odd place for Wash, though—and he thinks Wash can take down Locus, easily.

He _trusts_ Wash, because you know, he risked a whole lot. But so did Tucker.

-

Gambles come with a price:

This is the gamble.

He bets on fitting in quips to Felix, but he doesn’t. So that’s fine.

He bets on Wash being fine. Wash isn’t fine, he finds out, after passing out in the dust and the blood flowing and pulsating around the stab wound. He feels bad for Carolina’s knee.

(Palomo and the lieutenants are all honorary variants to the magic of dumb luck, too, and though he’ll tell Palomo he’s a fucking shit when he’s crying, he’s proud of the kid, just a bit).

-

This is the other gamble:

He’ll get a nice scar.

(He plans on a good scar).

*

3.

Afterwards, when they’ve all stood up line-in-line, rainbow soldiers of all that is good and great and impossible, and shown the Chairman that be _afraid_ of colour, be _afraid_ of the violent visible spectrum, be _afraid_ of the tiffany blue and aqua and steel and cobalt that will invade the bad-lighting on his shitty ship and _show him_ what happens when you _fuck with the wrong people_. Or fuck with just people, really, because Tucker doesn’t so much as believe in karma, but that dicks who’re dicks deserve their comeuppance.

And he trusts. He trusts Church, when he gives the speech, because Church isn’t a pretender. He just trusts himself a little less.

Making decisions, like, _Wash, you take Locus_ , are _hard._ Making decisions like, _we’ll help you, Chorus_ are _hard._ He’s apart of the latter. The former lands on his shoulders. The _what-if’s_ , the _what if Wash wasn’t okay in the end, what if Wash wasn’t a resilient asshole_.

He doesn’t settle for a hug and cuddle in his quarters, doesn’t do something that reminds him of fucking Felix.

-

“Tucker,” Wash says, later, the same day. Tucker prepares himself for a Freelancer Speech, because of the qualities he’s observed of the two remaining Agents, they’re prone to melodramatics (see: Agent Washington) and sometimes have quiet emotional moments (see: both of them, though for Carolina…he’s happy she’s opening up, hey).

“’Sup, Wash,” he says, crosses his arms. He’s down below in the place with all the algae, the secret spot Kimball showed him, once. She’s in a meeting with Carolina and Doyle, so he knows she won’t be looking for any of her own time alone yet.

 _Alone_. He chuckles to himself.

“How…are you?” Wash says, moving up to stand beside Tucker. He’s several inches taller, but despite the height difference they feel on even ground.

Tucker’s quite comfortable.

“Eh. I could be better. Caboose keeps coming into my room, except he’s not complaining about missing Church, he’s complaining about not being allowed into Carolina’s room. It’s weird as shit.”

Wash laughs, breathily—relaxed and even and delightful.

“Well,” Wash begins. “Have you tried locking your door?”

“Nah. Then he’d get all sad and paw at the door. Or moan loudly about Church. Or something else that I can’t think of, because it’s fucking Caboose.”

“You analyse all the outcomes. Very good thinking there.”

“Or I’ve been around Caboose too long,” Tucker says back quickly, avoids Wash’s gaze through the gold visor. He doesn’t like the connotations; that he _considered_ Wash would get hurt ( _oh wow, nice, getting emotional over_ Wash), that he _didn’t_ even think it was a possibility. Because Wash just…survives, despite.

Wash hums. “I would wager yes. He was the first I met of you all, you know.”

“That’s fucking horrifying.”

“It wasn’t exactly the best of impressions, no. Then Church, of course. And the spectacular entrance of the Reds. We’d tracked the Meta down and then…they showed up. Didn’t exactly make me all that happy.”

“Sounded like a shit job.” Tucker stands a little closer to Wash then. Doesn’t pay mind to anything else.

“You were the last of the Reds and Blues that I met.”

“Saved the best for last.”

“I would have to agree.”

Wash removes his helmet with a familiar click, a hush of air, and Tucker takes off his seconds after; not because he thinks of standing on tippy-toes to kiss Wash or something equally romantic, but because the familiarity, the softness of Wash’s face is soothing, and he hopes with both their faces clear they’re still on equal footing. So to speak.

He knows the high-set cheekbones and the ever-holding stare of Wash’s dark-blue ringed eyes and the dumb overgrown fringe, hanging left, and the straw-like hair and long, thin face—tired and some scars here and there. But it’s a _good_ face. It’s a _wholesome_ face.

“Is there something on my face?” Wash asks, hesitantly.

“Yep.” Tucker does, in fact, go up on tippy-toes and kiss Wash’s nose, because he _can_. ‘Cause he trusts no one else is watching, ‘cause he gambles on luck and the quiet of the cavernous den. His heels touch back down to the ground as he pulls away.

Wash sighs, looks at Tucker with something of a smile and kind of _nice one_ tilt to his lips. “Are you sure you’re fine?”

“Remember how we had that talk? Like, the ‘how the fuck do you make actual decisions’? I’m still kinda struggling with that.”

“How so?”

“Because I nearly fucking got you killed.”

The words hang, for a moment—still and silent and maybe Tucker’s been too honest. But then: “You didn’t get me killed.”

“Feels like I almost did.”

“Tucker, that was a plan. That expertly worked out, stopped the fighting between the Federal Army and the New Republic of Chorus, _and_ your lieutenants came with an emergency dropship. I think you should be proud.”

“And you were left bleeding up Locus decided to beat the shit out of you. That sounds like _such_ a great part of the plan.”

Wash gives Tucker a no-nonsense stare, so he in turn glares straight ahead. So he did pretty well and Church communicated Felix’s egotistical fucking speech via the radio. Yeah.

“I expected him to be less…involved, yes. But that was a variable we could have never accounted for. And I’m here now.”

Tucker doesn’t say anything.

“You know I’m bad with trust. You know I’m bad with—with this. But I trust you because you _know_ this.”

“Oh, shit Wash, don’t—”

“You and the Reds took me in. And though you didn’t exactly adjust to me as a leader, I think we’ve proven here that I _trust_ you. When I say I _trust_ you it doesn’t mean I’m blindly following you. I just know you’ve done a lot right. For me.”

He turns to Wash then and bites his tongue, lets his shoulders relax, slowly.

“And despite what you may think—I’ve told you this before, leading is never easy—you’re…a very good leader.”

“Ugh. I knew this would get all emotional.”

“Well, I could just say I love you and get it all out of the way,” Wash says, oddly dry yet affectionate. He places a hand on Tucker’s shoulder, then, quickly adds, “I mean that. I mean. I wasn’t kidding around.”

“Yeah, dude, don’t worry. I love you too. Jesus Christ.”

“Good. Okay,” he says, in that funny, hasty, assured Wash-way.

He trusts Wash not to go and parrot that around to the others. He can do the emotional stuff ( _doesn’t mind it actually_ ) but he doesn’t need Church adding to it. He can probably trust Carolina not to be a dick about it, though, so he’s not too worried, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♡


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